Lamb to the Slaughter Read Online Free PDF

the time about the wisdom of leaving the Saab there, but with so many people coming to the meeting, parking space was at a premium. She looked anxiously at the car as she reached it.
    It was thankfully unscathed and, focused on the bikes and their riders, they weren’t paying any attention to her either. There was a lot of laughter, jeering and pushing, then they scattered in mock terror as the motorbikes revved their engines and took off, one after the other, going far too fast and cutting the corner of the Square.
    Where were the police when you needed them? Having evening classes in Human Rights, Fiona reflected acidly, which never seemed to take account of the rights of people like her not to have to share the planet with people like that.
     
    The motorbikes shot along Kirkluce High Street, past a group standing talking just outside the Church Hall, provoking an outburst of communal tutting.
    ‘Kill themselves, that’s what they’ll do,’ an elderly man ­leaning on a stick said, glaring after them and shaking his fist.
    ‘Sooner the better,’ added his wife. ‘Just as long as they don’t take anyone with them.’
    ‘Where was the Colonel tonight, then, Annie?’ Another woman, after shaking her head in disapproval, returned to the main topic of conversation.
    Annie Brown, a comfortable-looking woman with greying hair and clear blue eyes, shook her head too. ‘When I went in at five o’clock to leave him his tea, he was out in his garden, though he was meaning to come. But I thought maybe he was kinda sweirt to go and speak out—’
    Two young women, coming out together, stopped. One of them, a henna redhead with a steel ring through her eyebrow and several more along the side of one ear, said aggressively, ‘What’s he got to be reluctant about? See him? He can screw the whole deal, right there, and none of us able to do a thing about it. It’s not right – it’s high time this dump joined the twenty-first century and had some real shops.’
    Annie squared up to her. ‘If you wonder why he wasn’t keen to come, it’s because of the likes of you. He’s a good man, the Colonel, and there’s plenty of us don’t want to see the High Street just a row of charity shops and folk who’ve been there years put out of business. We maybe don’t make as much noise about it as you lot, but we’ve a right to our opinion too.’
    ‘You tell them, Annie,’ the old man quavered. ‘That’s the trouble with you young ones nowadays – want it all your own way.’
    The girl sneered. ‘You’re living on borrowed time, Granddad. Get on with it – move aside and make room for the future.’
    Her friend giggled and they strutted off, well pleased with the shocked silence left behind them.
    ‘Well!’ Annie said, recovering herself. ‘What those young besoms need is a good skelping.’
    ‘We’ll come and visit you when you get the jail for assault,’ someone assured her, and raised a laugh.
    ‘Might as well laugh,’ the old man said morosely. ‘There’s not a muckle lot we can do about it anyway.’
     
    Tam MacNee pulled off the sweater with the elaborate dartboard motif, lovingly knitted by his wife Bunty for his evenings out with the Cutty Sark Warlocks darts team. It was out of keeping with his usual style – black leather jacket, jeans, white T-shirt – but it had been a labour of love on her part and he wouldn’t hurt her feelings by failing to wear it, even if she wasn’t there to see. Bunty was the rock on which his life was built, a buxom, pleasant-faced woman with a heart as generous as her hips, and he adored her.
    Anyway, the sweater had become a sort of talisman for the whole of the team from the Cutty Sark and had probably got more credit for the Warlocks’ victories over the years than had Tam’s own skill with the arrows. It hadn’t worked tonight though: his first night back after his injury, and he’d even missed the board a couple of times.
    His team-mates were overly